The Truth Behind Patria
by ConcreteAngelRoxHerHalo
Summary: She'd been left on the streets for a night, and thought nothing of giving the boy a fake name. Éponine left with his coat and his money, not realizing that she had also left with his heart. She'd said, quietly, "You can call me Partria." Éponine/Enjolras.
1. Chapter 1

The girl hunched over even further than she'd already been. It was January, 1831, and the Parisian night had never felt as cold to her as it did then. The night was mostly dry but for the smallest of flurries that fell from the heavens like the freezing kisses of the dead.

And the girl had nothing for protection but the rags that were so torn up, she might have been naked. The flimsy material did little to stop the biting wind that chewed at her bony back, and the sleeves had long since fallen off, leaving her thin arms open to the night. The skirt barely came past her knees, and the tattered material where the hem ought to be simply brushed her legs, making her skin crawl.

She cracked a stony smile at the thought that this may finally be it. This little outing could be the end to a life she didn't want to live. No longer would she have to do dirty deeds in the soiled name of her father. And surely heaven wouldn't care for mean things that she was forced to do, would it? The thought burned in her brain, warming her as if someone had given her something hot to drink.

Her father had turned her out on the streets, insisting that she was to bring him money, or he wouldn't let her back inside. Heartbroken, she'd stopped for a second in front of the handsome Monsieur Marius's door, but as her fist rose to knock upon the wood, she allowed her weak hand to fall. She was far too proud to allow someone to notice her simply as a charity case.

So, as her pride doomed her, young Éponine prepared for the death that was sure to accept her. For a moment, she thought of searching for her brother, but that idea disappeared with the depressing realization that she had no clue of where he was.

She laughed bitterly. How fitting for her to die alone, such a death was suitable for sewer rats! And, as she'd been told by the teasing Montparnesse, she resembled one as well.

She sank against the wall of a cafe, fighting back the tears that would only wet her face and make it colder. A gust of wind blew the dusting of snow off the roofs, making it seem as if there was a cloud surrounding the dying Éponine.

A figure stepped forwards, and she got up with some difficulty to greet it. As he came closer, her smile grew larger. She thought that she must surely be in contact with an angel. His face was as perfect as if it had been carved from the whitest of marble, and his golden curls were dusted with frost. His blue eyes gazed at her for some time before he spoke.

"Mademoiselle, can I assist you in any way?" He asked. Her heart sank. She was still living.

"I apologize, Monsieur. For when you came towards me I thought that I'd been clasped in the hands of death and that you were surely someone divine that was coming to take me away! But alas," she added, bitterly. "I was mistaken. I apologize for bothering you, Monsieur. Now if you could leave me alone to die, that would be welcome."

He smiled at the talkative girl, and the man of marble moved to remove his overcoat. She looked with glazed eyes at him as he carefully placed it over her scrawny shoulders.

"This is as much as I can do for you, Mademoiselle. There are six francs in the left pocket, and that is all I have on me." Then Éponine's eyes widened. He WAS an angel! One who'd come just for her. Surely for a man to be so kind to a rat he must come from God. Or he could want something from her... The only thing that hadn't been taken from her. Sadly, she shrugged off her coat.

"I am sorry, Monsieur, but I won't do anything of that sort with you." She whispered in her raspy voice that hurt her ears. The man shook his head, again pulling the protection over her.

"I've asked nothing of you. I am citizen Enjolras. What is your name, mademoiselle?"

"Ép-" she started, but remembered the only lesson her father had taught her that actually seemed useful. _Always give a fake name._ "Patria." She said, and the man smiled.

"Épatria?"

"You can call me Patria." She grinned, thinking of how it was actually Ponine. But anyway, what was the likelihood of seeing this young gentleman again?

The man went home that night with the name on his lips. He smiled, liking the sound of it. He didn't dislike the pretty face that accompanied it, either. For, Enjolras left more than his money and his coat with the freezing girl. He'd left his heart in her bony hands. Try as he might in the year following, he never saw her again.

As he faced his foes on the barricade, her name rose to mind, and he said it softly, quietly. _Perhaps we shall meet again, _he thought. _Only this time it won't be so cold._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: this WAS supposed to be a one-shot, but what the hell! I made it a two-shot! And this is it!**

**Things in italics belong to Victor Hugo, everything else is mine.**

"_You know, Monsieur Marius_," she said, sweetly. Her head felt as if it was floating, and the pain had completely vanished. In that moment when she opened her eyes after making him promise, he thought that it was as if she was speaking from a different realm. However, he was just unused to her not looking at him. In that little fleeting second before she planned on spilling her secret, she'd glanced up and seen a head of shining golden curls, and her smile came mostly from this. Her angel would be here in her death- it was only fitting. "_I think,_" she put as much evidence on that word that separated her confession from the truth and the possible. "_I was a little bit in love with you._"

Éponine closed her eyes and felt her body drop. She was finally free, she was finally warm.

* * *

When she awoke, she felt as if gold had been pulsed into her veins in replacement of blood. She felt so refreshed, so pure. She was still barefoot, but it was the kind of barefoot associated with warm summer days and cool puddles after a spring rain. Her hair was clean and lay longer than it had ever been, and she saw for the first time since she was a child the color of her hair. It was a pleasant caramel color, lightened from the sun and yet it had been so caked in mud that she'd never noticed. It wasn't close to the silky waves of Cosette's chestnut locks, but it was pretty nevertheless.  
She sat up, and a gown of the finest material slipped over her knees, covering her breakable body with a sparkling fabric subject for angels.  
Speaking of angels, where was he?  
She stumbled to her feet, and suddenly felt enveloped in the shock of what heaven looked like. It was the barricade she'd just left, but it was higher and neatly stacked, and there was not a speck of dirt on the streets. There was good natured laughing very nearby, and the smell of champagne embraced her nose. A small figure darted into sight, laughing and smiling, surrounded by a glow that meant new-discovered happiness. Gavroche.  
A taller figure chased him, a laugh lighting his handsome face as he playfully reached for the boy, who easily ducked out of the way.  
Curious, Éponine followed them to a lovely sight. Hundreds of young men laughing and acting joyously, their clothes cleaner and their hair neater than they'd ever known.  
A couple of them stopped their merriment upon Éponine's arrival. A man who was one of Marius's friends, she recognized him as this at least, knelt at her bare feet.  
"Merci, ange." Jehan said, looking at her as if she was the thing he claimed she was. She bent down and gently touched his face the way she'd always wanted to touch Marius's.  
"I am no angel, I am the devil, but it's all the same to me." She said, softly, sadly, much more so than the way she'd boldly said it to Père Mabeuf.  
Then the voice of the old man arose to her ears very near to her.  
"Alas, my dear, I'm not sure that you realize this, God _has_ blessed you, as I told you. You are here. Would you be so if you were anything less than the angel you appear?"  
A protest rose to her lips, but she then caught sight of her reflection in a mirror that lay imbedded in the neatly made barricade. She gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. And, as she saw in the mirror, she did it delicately.  
Éponine had never seen herself as beautiful before. But, she may have been as pretty as Cosette in that heavenly minute. She cried in delight and spun around in this new dress.  
Who knew how great it would be to die?  
Mid spin, she was caught by a pair of strong arms. She laughed, knowing nothing but the swell of happiness that filled every inch of her. When she was placed down, she looked up into a pair of eyes that she'd seen before, on a cold night the year prior. The face of marble was broken with a smile wider than Éponine's. His curls sprung with a fresh cleanliness and he was dressed in a neat red jacket.  
"Patria." He said, and Éponine's heart raced with a feeling she'd never known. He said it so tenderly, and no one had spoken to her like that since...  
He was as beautiful as an angel, yes, and his deep voice sounded like one sent from God. And she'd lied to him.  
"Monsieur," she began, but he cut her off with a wave of his hand.  
"Julian Enjolras."  
"I apologize, and I hope you know that I mean every word of it. I have deceived my angel, the one who saved my life only for me to die a year later. So I must correct you." She took a deep breath. "It is Éponine, not P-"  
And then the man of marble did something that drew cheers from his men. He leaned forward and pressed his perfect lips to her chapped ones, and it was a warm kiss, so vastly different from the rough ones she shared with Montparnesse.  
He parted from her, and she wanted more than anything to lean up and forward, and join him again.  
"'Ponine or Patria, you never left my mind."  
Resolving never to lie to him again, she responded, "You were never far from mine."


End file.
